The Beat: Inside the perimeter in Watertown

It had already been a trying week. As I wearily drove home from the Daily News office in Framingham late Thursday night, I heard details of the shots fired at MIT. First thought: "Awful." Second thought, one I assumed to be of the passing variety: "If there’s a gunman on the loose, he could go anywhere. He may even come to Watertown."

As I wearily drove home from the Daily News office in Framingham late Thursday night, I tuned into WBZ 1030 and heard details of the shots fired at MIT late that evening. The voice on the radio reported that the area around MIT was being locked down.

First thought: "Awful."

Second thought, one I assumed to be of the passing variety: "If there’s a gunman on the loose, he could go anywhere. He may even come to Watertown."

It’ll be a long time before I dismiss a passing thought again. Watertown, this was your close-up.

As I returned to the East Watertown home I share with my girlfriend Elissa, she lay awake. I asked, "Did you hear about what happened at MIT?" She replied she had, and she wanted to get away from the news for a bit.

So we did, laughing at pictures of a sumo wrestler enjoying a drink. I had Twitter open in another tab. Let’s check that, shall we?

Almost right away, the sirens came. And the "whoosh" of police cars driving on a residential street at what had to be at least 50 mph. I tweeted out the sound that had just interrupted the still of the night.

Then came a muffled but palpable "boom." Moments afterward, the distant sound of gunfire.

This was going down, and it was going down nearby.

We woke up Elissa’s father, down from New Hampshire and staying with us for the night. His reaction was like mine would have been had I been sleeping — kind of a "wake me when they are knocking down the door" reaction. Back to sleep he went. We weren’t convincing enough.

As we lay awake, Twitter kept us informed, but was not comforting. Quite the opposite, really.

Different addresses within shouting distance of our home were said to have suspicious objects. On the Boston Police scanner, which I had not yet linked to, there were reports of cops telling all units to turn off their cell phones for fear that a phone could detonate a bomb.

Somebody tweeted that Watertown residents should turn off their cell phones and stay away from windows. We did both, while throwing on jeans and sneakers if we had to run. It’s not unusual to find Watertowners out in public in their pajama pants, but we did not want to be among them.

We learned that one suspect was on the loose. His identity was misreported through the night but, at the moment, I didn’t care who he was. I just knew he was out there.

We put pillows on the floor so we weren’t near the window. We kept all lights off, for fear of attracting attention. We thought about going to the basement. The odds were small that he would come to our literal doorstep, I realized, but there was a powerful fear of the unknown.

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There could be a bomb nearby. Maybe he led the police here on purpose.

The theories in my head got more vivid with less sleep. It seemed a new address would come across the Boston Police scanner every 10 minutes. I would punch it into Google Maps, and realize it was five blocks away. Or 10 blocks away. Or just down the road.

I couldn’t wait for sunrise.

A national football writer I follow said Watertown sunrise is 5:55 a.m. It couldn’t come soon enough. It seemed EVERYONE I follow who was awake and on Twitter — no matter their profession — was keeping track of the story. A lot of "Be safe" type messages came my way all night. I only kind of, sort of, knew how.

With apologies to matters sport/pop culture/waffles that have made their way into my Twitter feed, never has the medium been more valuable.

The long night became morning, and I had slept for 45 minutes while Elissa "stood watch." We traded one short nap each.

I was thinking about the majority of my neighbors who are likely sleeping through this. Wait until they turn on "Good Morning America" expecting to see a segment on how to write "Thank you" notes, only to see Deluxe Town Diner in a CNN live shot.

No happily trotting to breakfast on this Friday.

The stillness and mystery of the dark gave way to an uncertain daytime. Paranoia, at least at our address, was still at a fever pitch as the news crews and all matters of uniformed officers descended on this suburb I have only called home since September.

We heard a "jingle, jingle" sound outside in the early hours. Elissa and I immediately stared unflinchingly at one another. I peeked through the blinds. There, with a supermarket cart, was a disheveled woman collecting cans from the green bins across the street. It was recycling day. No lockdown for this woman, apparently. For one of the first times in my life, I had to force laughter.

Still waiting on that recycling to be picked up, by the way.

Around noon, we felt it safe to turn our cell phones back on. I joked that this must be what LeBron James feels like after a game. Why I picked LeBron (blech), no idea, but our respective phones were buzzing for two minutes with unchecked messages. It’s good to feel loved.

Let’s back it up a bit. On Monday, about 90 minutes after the explosions at the Boston Marathon finish, a British radio station called talkSPORT called me for an update. "MetroWest Daily News, now that’s in New York, isn’t it?" I had been at the Red Sox game and was within a mile when the explosions occurred, but could not hear them.

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Those at the station wanted to speak to me again on Wednesday. I told them there are plenty of people I could get them in contact with, like our very own Tim Dumas, who had run the Marathon and finished long before the bombs went off. Or Ken McGagh, who took some of the most poignant photographs we’ve ever seen.

But they insisted on speaking with me, and I went on and gave as much perspective as I could.

The call from London came once again at about 3:30 p.m. Friday. They wanted me on that night (early morning there). This time, I felt overqualified.

From about 1 p.m. to 5 p.m., the SWAT teams, Boston Police and Watertown Police went door to door on our street. They spent 20 minutes in some houses, five in others,and barely any time in ours. One came around the perimeter, peaked in, asked if we had been here all day, then scanned the area.

That night, after the first lockdown was lifted, there was a small measure of relief. Elissa went to nap, and her father took his car back to New Hampshire just before the lockdown was lifted. He was daring, homesick or sick of us. Maybe all of them.

Before the new reports came in — the boat, the thermal imaging, everything — I once again had a passing thought. "This guy is in Watertown still, I believe, and I don’t want to be." So I woke Elissa up, and we were driving to my parents’ house in Acton 10 minutes later. We made it, hugs all around. I spoke with the radio station in London for 10 minutes.

Come the "we got him" press conference we watched on my parents’ television, there were tears.

We missed the Watertown version of the Canyon of Heroes, as the parade of officers rolled right down our street as ecstatic onlookers cheered.

We were safe and relieved. It was time to get some sleep.

Tim Whelan Jr. can be reached at 508-626-4402 or twhelan@wickedlocal.com. Follow him on Twitter @thattimwhelan.Daily News Staff Photo/Tim Whelan Jr.